Page 152 of Brazen Mistakes

“Need some help?” I ask.

He stops, a glare only partially meant for me on his face. “No.”

“Are you sure? If you had at least one hand free, the ladder wouldn’t be swinging around like the tail of a drunk dragon.”

His nostrils flare, and with a long enough pause to know I’ve bruised his delicate ego, he bobs his head to the toolbox. Once I have it, I back up, giving him space to navigate the doorway with the bucket and ladder, my grin sticking to my face. He pushes through to the back hallway, leaving me to trail him until he goes outside.

Nope. Not into the snow with bare feet. Been there, regretted that.

Instead, I keep the toolbox hostage, going to the kitchen to fix myself my coffee—lavender today—and then return, sipping my drink while Trips loads up the SUV. When comes for the box, I tuck it behind my back.

“Crash, I don’t have time for this.”

“Are you going out by yourself, Grumpy?”

He glares. Again. This time all for me. “I’m going to work.”

“Alone.”

“I don’t see anyone else, do you? Give me the box.”

“No.”

I don’t know that either of us expected me to say that, and we both take a moment to recover.

I get there first. “Bryce is escalating. We decided to go two by two, and the last time I checked, Trips, you’re someone and you don’t have a buddy. You’re not going anywhere.”

“I can take your pussy-ass ex-boyfriend.”

“I’m sure you can in a fair fight. But that’s not the way he’s going to play this. He’s not going to come up to you and challenge you to a duel, Trips, with rules and the opportunity to look him in the face while you destroy him. He’s going to come after you sideways, in a way you’ll never expect, and then when he’s done his worst, he’ll send me a photo of the fallout. Which means, Mr. Westerhouse, you’re not going anywhere without a buddy.”

A sound that is suspiciously growl-like rumbles in his throat before he picks me up by the waist, walking me back into the house and slamming the door with both of us inside. A smattering of coffee trails down the back of my hand, but it’s worth it to have his hands on me, even for a moment. “Then you’d better be up for manual labor, Crash.”

I tilt my head to look up at him, standing so close that if I breathed deeply, my chest would touch his.

And I want to touch him. So badly.

Instead, I squeeze the handle of the toolbox behind my back, the case getting heavy the longer I hold it. “Can I bring music? Do I have time to change? I don’t want to ruin RJ’s clothes. And do I have time to throw a load of laundry in the wash?”

Trips rolls his eyes. “You have fifteen minutes. And I already packed speakers.”

Flashing him a grin that makes his features freeze like a lake mid-winter, I hand him the toolbox. “Got it.”

Less than fifteen minutes later, I’m wearing some crummy clothes that were almost deadbeforeI got them at the thrift store and wore them for two years, my dirty sheets and some of my clothes are whirring in the washer, and I have a travel mug for my coffee and a granola bar. I’m not hungry yet, but today feels like a new beginning.

And there’s no way I can handle another day like yesterday.

Trips leads me to the SUV, a coffee in his hands as well, shooting me suspicious looks as we trudge through the snow.

Once we’re in the truck, the engine slowly warming the cab as we take a few turns, I break. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“You haven’t asked where we’re going and what we’re doing.”

“Just because you haven’t told me about your student-housing money laundering scheme doesn’t mean that no one did.”

He grips the steering wheel. “Which fucker told you?”

“Why didn’t you?”

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